The Dance

I am lying on damp sheets. The gentle breathing of the girl beside me is a constant reminder of her presence. She is here, I am not alone. Her name is Leila. She was sweet to me, harsh only in the right ways.

The cotton pillow crushes my curls. It will only get worse the longer I stay here. In the dim orange light spilling through the crooked blinds, I can only see the outlines of furniture creating menacing shapes. The chairs are hunched lovers, the pens a porcupine, the patterned curtains hulking figures lurking in the shadowed corners of her tidy room. 

I don’t belong here.

Leila shifts in her sleep, rubbing her round face against her pillow. Through the darkness I can see her beauty, delicate features pierced through with metal rings.

I remember the moment we met. When I first saw her. 

When our eyes connected across the club, her face had lit up, taking on new life. It always starts the same; a spark of recognition and a drink poured into a willing mouth to calm our nerves. A shared desire for a stranger’s touch. 

Her face twisted at the burn. I swear I heard her breathy gasp across the packed floor. She came closer, taking careful steps in chunky boots with too many buckles. Biting her black lipstick, she stood with boyish confidence. Her dress was dark and sheer, her pale legs distracting my train of thought. 

She brushed past me on her way to the bathroom; fingertips skimming across a patch of skin where my shirt rode up. My wild heart jumped at the touch. We were eager, my heart and me. I hid my warm face behind my glass as she disappeared into the club bathroom. 

I knew this part, this dance. I couldn’t follow her yet. I had to play it coy. Coy enough to make her want me more. 

It’s the thrill of the chase. 

Does that make me sound straight? 

I felt my fingers thrum. It could have been the alcohol, the pounding music, or the way she smiled at me. 

When my want for her took over me, I pushed through the crowd. Pounding music echoed in the club bathroom. Our eyes met as someone pushed past, eager to reach a mirror. 

She was inviting, with dark eyes and a wicked smile, lipstick smeared at the edges of her mouth.

I reached out. 

She took hold of my hand, slipping her hot fingers through mine. She kissed me against a door until I was dizzy with the feel of her hands running up the back of my thighs. She is bolder than I thought, pushing at me with a desperate need I can only try to replicate.

 I pull her away from the bright lights of the bathroom and lead her back onto the floor, to a shadowed corner, sheltered from the roaring music and dark looks. We danced, sticky hands finding waists and soft backs. It was not skilled or pretty, eyes too focussed on each other. Shifting closer, she whispered in my ear, “My name is Leila.” 

I nodded and kissed her, pulling her body against mine. Her hot hands snuck under the back of my shirt and I kissed her harder when I felt her sharp acrylics run over my skin. She knew not to touch my curls, even though she could, choosing to run her hands over my shoulders, clutching at me and gasping when I licked into her mouth.

That was how I got here, in a stranger’s bed, not daring to move. My mouth is dry and my body aches, but I am satisfied by the memory of her pretty face overtaken by pleasure. I remember the enchanting giggle she gave when my coils of hair got in the way. 

I bite my lip, wanting to stretch out my tired limbs. She probably expects me to leave before she opens her eyes. Cotton is terrible for my hair. 

I hate the aftermath where everything is foggy, no clear next steps. One wrong move and she could tell everyone about the worst, rudest girl she ever slept with. Stay too long, leave too soon, not remember her name. There were too many ways to slip up. 

These thoughts pound against my restraint, making an ache rock through my head.

I startle when her arm reaches for me, all cool skin. Her ruffled black hair and fresh face peek out from under the duvet. Her bleary eyes open and her hand sneaks around my waist, pulling me close.    

“Don’t think too much,” Leila’s voice is hoarse. I can feel her words against my skin, her soft mouth so close to my neck. “Go to sleep,” she whispers, as I fight off a yawn. The sky is turning lighter, climbing into the haze of morning. 

“Really?” I can’t help muttering.

“It’ll help with your head,” she’s whispering, scrunching her nose. Her solid arm is insistent, holding me in place. Leila’s breath, her warmth, her legs sliding against mine, it makes me want to sink into her. I feel her nose pushing against my collarbone. 

I need a silk pillowcase, but her breathing evens out as I run my fingers over the divots of her spine. 

I’ll decide in the morning.